


diet mountain dew

by cakecakecake



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Female Reader, First Time, Hot Babysitter Trope, Loss of Virginity, Making Out, Mild Spoilers, Nanny!Reader, Neck Kissing, Older Woman/Younger Man, Peter is 23, Peter is a nerd, Post-Endgame, Precious Peter Parker, Reader is 29+, Reader is Morgan Stark's Nanny, Reader-Insert, Safe Sane and Consensual, Shameless Smut, Submissive Peter, Teasing, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-26 22:53:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18726496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakecakecake/pseuds/cakecakecake
Summary: peter works some nondescript job for pepper, and you're her daughter's live-in nanny. a rainy night brings him over at an opportune time.





	diet mountain dew

**Author's Note:**

> listen i'm gonna be honest with you, this is not my best work, i wrote it in like a day and proofread it once to make sure it was coherent enough to post -- this is just the result of my filthy crush on tom holland

The rain is bad, but not too bad. Not the kind where you’re fucked without an umbrella, but he really should have worn a jacket with a hood. By the time he arrives at Miss Potts’ front door, his hair is wet enough that it clings to his forehead -- there’s dark splotches on his hoodie where it’s soaked through. It’s not very cold, but he shivers anyway. He rings the doorbell, watching through the window for Pepper’s silhouette, but the figure coming forward isn’t her -- Peter’s heart leaps to his throat.

“Hi, Peter Parker,” you smile at him, wide and bright and infectious. 

He leans against the door frame as he laughs awkwardly, almost breathless. “H-Hey, how’s it going?”

“Fine,” is your wry reply. Your eyes move over him slowly, looking him up and down as you ask dutifully, “Something I can do for you?”

“Yeah, I uh,” he stumbles as if he’s suddenly feeling the weight of all the shit he’s got in his arms. “Is Pepper around?” 

“Miss Potts got held up at a conference in Chicago,” you answer him, unblinking -- he feels your eyes watching the droplets of rain rivet down the curve of his jaw and he swallows, visibly. “Is this a work thing, or -- ?”

“N-No actually, I promised Morgan I’d stop by this week to help her with a project but I didn’t really have a free night except tonight, so I just -- "

“Why don’t you come inside,” you hum, brushing aside to let him through the archway, curiously eyeing the crate he's carrying. “What even is all that?”

“Oh just -- a bunch of stuff I had just, around the uh. The apartment,” he explains, shuffling in and making a beeline straight for the dining room table. Carefully, he sets the tangled mess of cables and knick-knacks down, totally unable to put a dam in the river of nervous-awkward word vomit. “She said she needed some parts for her computer so Ned gave me a bunch of his old -- thinga-ma-goobers for the uh -- yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs and clears his throat, eager to switch topics. “Um -- so what um, what were you guys up to all day?”

“Not much -- Morgan’s sick as hell, so. Mostly just hanging out,” you tell him, shrugging as you cross to the counter, reaching for your half-empty glass of iced tea. “We think it’s strep, so unless you wanna catch the plague too, I think your uh...thinga-ma-goobers might have to wait a bit.”

“Yikes, that’s -- that sucks.” He laughs a little at your usage of his bullshit terminology and scratches the back of his neck.

“Yeah. She’s been asleep most of the evening, though, so -- " ( _So you’re alone, essentially_ , Peter thinks to himself, chewing on his lip) “ -- I’ve just been posted up on the couch watching old Buzzfeed Unsolved videos.”

“That honestly doesn’t sound like a bad Friday night.”

“Yeah, not bad,” you agree, grinning. “Could definitely be worse.”

“Yeah, like, you catching strep throat,” he laughs, but you don’t, and Peter wonders for a moment if you’re actually just trying to get him to leave, but then you say -- 

“Yeah, that's worse than watching YouTube by myself like a lonely old lady.”

And Peter’s breath catches. “L-Lonely?”

“Yeah,” you frown, crossing your arms. Your eyes flicker to his, peering into them as if trying to tell him something, but before he can piece it together, you sigh. “Well, I’m sure Miss Potts won’t mind if you leave your uh -- goober-things here, if you need to get going -- "

“Oh, sure I can…” Peter looks around, looks to the dark entryway to the living room, and then back to you -- and it clicks. “Or I can -- keep you company, if you’re bored? I don’t exactly have anywhere to be tonight, so…”

A wicked smile splits your mouth and Peter almost can’t breathe again. You unfold your arms, striding a little closer to him. “I don’t know Mr. Parker, the couch is kinda small.”

“I don’t take up a lot of room,” he says, in a manner which he thinks is flirtatious, staring back at you with half-lidded eyes. Your voice drops an octave.

“Oh, but I do.”

“Oh, um,” he struggles, but tries to smile, for lack of confidence. “Well I don’t uh. I don’t mind if you scoot in a little close.”

Mercifully, you smile back, and with a hand on his wrist, lead him through to the den.

*

The TV isn’t on. 

With a clap of your hands, the reading lamps are commanded to life, but only offer a dimming, amber glow to the lounge room. Peter follows you further in with tentative steps, brows furrowed anxiously. “Do you -- need help finding the remote?”

You giggle. Finding his wrist again, you halt him in the center of the room, brushing little circles on his skin, right near the hem of his sleeve. He wets his mouth, unmoving, his big, doe-brown eyes staring dumbfounded at you. 

He doesn’t move as your free hand floats to his cheek, cupping it gently as you incline your head toward his.

“O-Oh, hey there, um…”

Your voice barely comes out in a whisper. “Do you know how pretty you are, Mr. Peter Parker?”

Peter gulps. You trail your hand down the length of his neck, tugging at the collar of his sweater. Feeling his throat bob under your delicate touch. He’s so warm. “Wow, thanks, um, Miss um -- "

“You can use my first name, it’s alright,” you assure him, letting go of his wrist to brush your thumb along his jawline. He chortles, again, awkwardly -- endearingly. 

“Then you don’t have to keep calling me ‘Mr. Parker’, you know -- "

“Oh, but I love how red your face gets when I do.” You pull at the neck of his sweater and bend your head, pushing your hips flush against his and you _bite_. Peter gasps, clutching your waist as your teeth sink into him.

“H-Holy _shit_ …”

You suck at his neck, relishing the way he whines, and let your hands float downward, smoothing over his chest. Feeling his heart jump under your touch. He shivers, the tips of your fingers creeping under the hem of his sweater -- your nails rake over the sliver of skin near the elastic band of his boxers. He’s shaking; you feel him swallowing hard as you nip at his neck, nosing under his earlobe, inhaling the scent of oceanic shampoo and spicy cologne. 

“You look so nice tonight, Peter,” you coo in his ear, “are you sure I’m not keeping you from something fun?”

“Oh, no, I -- " he struggles, gulping again as you press a kiss to his collarbone, “ -- I guarantee you whatever I could have had planned wouldn’t have been more fun than this..."

“Oh, we’re barely doing anything yet, Mr. Parker,” you pull away to stare at him a moment, brushing the damp hair from his brow. His eyes are wide, pupils blown -- skin flushed a deep crimson from the spaces under his eyes down to his neck. “God, you’re pretty.” 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks you shakily -- innocently, a sweet, boyish request from the hardened voice of a man who’s taken more without words. You reply with a teasing brush of your lips against his, and he quickly winds a fist in your hair and yanks you forward, closer. Eager tongue slipping into your mouth, drawing a deep groan from you. Peter gains his confidence very quickly, clutching the fabric of your clothes and pulling you to the edge of the couch -- but you pin him against it. Legs on either side of his hips. He stares up at you dolefully, moaning helplessly and you revert back to sucking at his neck, hands roaming up his sweater to flick the peaks of his pecs. Peter’s back arches, the tent at the front of his pants rubbing against your center all-too pleasantly. 

“How do you feel, Peter?” 

“Like I wanna take this off,” he answers, tugging at your top. You oblige him, lifting it slowly over your head, his burning stare making you flush. 

“Your turn.”

He obeys you quickly, pulling his sweater off and tossing it behind you. He starts to fiddle with the buttons of his undershirt, but you grab his hands.

“No, no, please, allow me the pleasure,” you insist, and he nods, watching your eyes light up. Carefully, agonizingly slowly even for you, you take your time with his shirt, skimming your fingertips gently over the sculpt of his chest, his abs. The farther down your hands wander, the more the muscles twitch and flex beneath, skin searing hot to the touch. His dick jumps under your hips. You pull the shirt off his shoulders and ask him what he wants next.

“Do you wanna -- sit on my face?”

Your mouth falls open. “S-Sorry?”

Peter shifts under you, nervously raking a hand through the mess of his hair as he starts to ramble.

“Sorry, that was -- I just, if you want to, I would just really love it if you would -- sit. On my face,” he says honestly, desperately, and you could honestly believe from the look in his darkened eyes that he truly would like to do nothing more. “I get told I’m really good at that. Not that I do it that often, I just -- my ex-girlfriend told me I was really good at it, and I -- "

So you don’t hesitate. You move to lay him down, kissing the top of his head before moving to tug off your leggings. “I would love to sit on your pretty face, Peter Parker.”

“Oh, God, then -- please, please come here -- " he almost begs you, holding your hips as you hover over him. You take care to watch where you settle your weight -- one foot on the floor and the other leg tucked into the crevice of the couch. It feels juvenile, like desperate kids with no better place to fool around, but that makes it all the hotter for you. Peter gives you one dark look before mouthing at your center, still covered by your panties. You could almost scream.

“Jesus Christ -- "

“Just Peter is fine -- "

You start laughing, feeling your clit quiver at the sudden loss of wet heat. “Did I say you could talk?” 

“Sorry -- " his apology comes muffled as he kisses at your entrance, his hands digging into your hips. You grind into his mouth, urging him to slide his fingers past your underwear already and he catches on fast, moving them aside to blow cool breath on your lips. You clench your jaw, teeth tingling as he slides his tongue inside you.

“Oh, fuck, Peter,” you moan for him, tangling your fingers in his hair with one hand and gripping the couch for balance with the other. He moans into your entrance and you shake with the vibrations of his voice, rocking your hips into him. 

“Peter, Peter,” you whimper, “Peter, this is amazing but I -- I -- "

He flicks his tongue over your clit, moving his hands upward to fondle you and you giggle appreciatively, but -- 

“Peter, please, I wanna fuck you, I wanna fuck you now -- "

“You what?” he stops, eyes flying open to meet your hungry, pleading stare above. 

“I have a condom, in my bag in the foyer,” you tell him, moving off to rest your hips right on his crotch instead, feeling the pool of wetness you’re dripping on his jeans. “If you want to -- "

Peter’s face pales, jaw working like he can’t seem to remember how to speak and you shrink. Maybe you’ve overstepped your already shaky boundaries here -- maybe moved too quickly. You shouldn’t have come on too strong, says the voice in your head, and you start to apologize.

“I’m sorry, Peter, that might have been too much -- you don’t have to -- "

“No no no,” he blurts out, shaking his head. “No I want to, I do want to -- it’s just that I’ve never really done this before and I don’t know if uh -- "

Uh oh. You search his face, forehead creasing. “You mean...casually? Or…?”

“Or at all,” he says honestly, and your heart plummets. 

“Oh,” is all you can think to say, feeling absolutely wretched. You can’t imagine how uncomfortable you must have just made him feel, insinuating he’d want to fuck you on his boss’s couch while she’s not home as if it’s the twentieth time he’d done such a thing. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes when it’s the last thing he should be doing. “You’re probably used to more experienced -- "

“Peter, no, no, I’m the one who should be sorry,” you tell him, reaching to cradle his face. “I made the wrong assumption, I’m the one who crossed a line. I shouldn’t have insinuated…”

“No, no you didn’t, you didn’t, I promise,” he tries to assure you, but you’re not buying it. 

“Peter, you don’t have to pretend -- I must have made you feel really uncomfortable just now.”

“You didn’t, I’m being honest.” He lowers his voice, looking at you sternly, insistent as he grabs your hand. “You’re not the first person to make the wrong guess about me.” 

“I’m sorry,” you say again, even though he rolls his eyes in frustration, half-laughing. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, please believe me?” he asks you, and then adds, with more of a plea, “Will you please fuck me?”

A surge of heat courses through you as you feel the knots in your lower stomach tighten again. “Peter, you really want me to?”

“I do,” he says with all the eagerness of a labrador puppy, grasping at your hips as he grinds his up into yours. He’s rock hard under you still, the hot friction making your eyes flutter shut. “I’ve wanted you since I first saw you. Please.”

“God, Peter,” you breathe, taking his hand to kiss his knuckles. “Then I’ll be right back.”

You bend down to kiss him and he meets you fervently, sloppily making out with you for only a count of ten before you tear yourself away to go rummage in your bag. You find the wrapper in seconds and spring back to the couch, tearing it open with your teeth as Peter slides his jeans off, his chest quickly puffing up and down with his panting breaths. 

“You sure you’re good?” You just want to make sure, once more. Peter nods vigorously, his jaw tense. He grabs your thighs.

“Please,” he groans.

You oblige him, sliding off to give his cock one quick swallow before sliding the condom on him. He seethes, hissing through his teeth as you flatten your tongue against the underside of his shaft. Already his precum is leaking, dick twitching in the mere seconds it’s in your mouth. You push the latex over his length and he sucks in a breath, his eyes never leaving your face. 

“I’ll be gentle,” you promise him, but funny enough, he smirks.

You inhale sharply, palms flat against his abs as you feel his cock sink into your walls. Peter’s face crumbles, tears swimming in his eyes as he strains against you. You chew on your bottom lip, squeezing around him, the shock of pleasure rippling up your spine. He’s buried inside your tightness, the veins in his neck popping as his face quickly brightens a familiar deep red. 

“Gentle isn’t what I need,” he croaks, blunt nails dragging down your thighs. You rock into him at a patient pace, testing him, listening to the way he groans and whines. His eyes fall closed, sweat glistening on his brow and on his chest as you feel him twitching inside of you. He’s not likely to last very long, so if you want to cum you better start riding. Tentatively, you bounce on top of him, slamming hard into his hips and he yowls your name almost euphorically. You stretch yourself on top of his chest, grinding hard into him, moving to kiss him but he can hardly keep focus enough to kiss back. Peter clutches your shoulders, growling in your ears.

“Harder, I need it harder, please let me -- "

You don’t want to lose your momentum, but his voice is cracking and his heart is slamming against his ribcage and you can’t, can’t say no to that face. You lift your head, tilting your hips up enough to slide off of his cock and he shudders, worry etched into the lines of his brow. 

“Get on top of me,” you tell him, and you drag him onto the carpet.

“You want me to fuck you on the floor?” he asks, bracing himself over you, his sweat dripping onto your neck. “Aren’t you uncomfortable?”

“I’m sure this carpet’s about twenty-thousand bucks, it's not uncomfortable,” you insist, grinning before craning your neck up to kiss him. Peter welcomes it, his tongue swirling circles around yours as he finds your entrance again. He moans into your mouth, panting like a starving mutt when you squeeze around him again. He thrusts into you twice or three times before you swing your legs up to hang over his shoulders and when he re-enters you, you can almost hear the fireworks going off in his head. 

“Better?” you can barely huff out, and he gives his breathless reply, “God, so much better -- "

Peter crashes into you again and again with heavy, jerky snaps of his hips, out of sync but pleasantly harsh. He’s rough with his touches, trying both to explore and to reach his undoing, moving his hands here and there over her as he drives his cock in and out of you. You give him gentle instructions -- _not so fast_ \-- _wait, not fast enough_. _No, not there_ , and then _just like that_ , and then _yes, Peter, right there. Harder, harder_. This angle is perfect. He’s hitting the right spot and you tell him you’re coming and that’s when you feel him trembling.

“I’m -- I’m -- "

“Me too, me too, let go, Peter -- "

So he does. Shuddering and shaking, you hold onto him tightly as you convulse into your climax, feeling the condom suddenly fill inside of you as he goes limp in your arms. One, two more thrusts, and Peter bites down on your neck and you screech in his ear, scratching harsh lines of red down his back before he pulls himself out of you. You lay sprawled out on your back, laughing triumphantly as he slides down next to you, kissing the side of your neck.

“That was -- amazing,” he breathes, pressing his lips to your temple. You reach for his face, turning your head to kiss him messily. 

“You think we woke up Morgan?” he asks playfully, and you have to laugh.

“She won’t wake up.” 

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s not here.”

Peter bolts upright, halfway between flabbergasted and impressed. “What!!”

“Miss Potts took her along on the conference, Happy went too. It’s just me in the house,” you tell him, rising up to find where you’d thrown your clothes. You snatch up his sweater and toss it at him, giggling. “Honestly, Peter, have you never watched a rom-com before?”

He looks up at you without blinking, bewildered as you pull your leggings back on -- and then he starts to laugh. “I actually had a feeling.”

“Sure you did,” you tease him. “So -- you hungry? I can order us something.”

“Can we Uber Eats some ice cream?” he asks sheepishly, zipping up his jeans. “Is that a thing we can do?”

“Of course, Mr. Parker.” You wrap your arms around his neck, smiling at the way he bares his teeth into a newly split grin. “Anything you want.”


End file.
